These Violent Delights
by if.the.plane.goes.down
Summary: Kakashi's first, last, and only love.....
1. Prolouge

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Which as they kiss consume


	2. Orochimaru

The room was smoke and mirrors. She couldn't see very clearly. And they all liked it that way. The White Skin sat in an ornate chair in the eye of the fog tornado. The black hair floated above it and the serpentine yellow eyes just below that, gleaming. But the rest of the face was abstract shadow. Shifting and sliding endlessly. Especially the sharp cut lip which kept opening up and inviting her in. And telling her the only words she could understand, which were commands. An assignment. Divide them. Strike them down one by one by any means necessary, starting with the Jounin and the strongest one at that. So, she set out for the village. And it began. Or was finished. Whichever way you wanted to look at it.


	3. The goldfish

When he first saw her he was amazed. And later that first day he could only keep thinking that she was very sandy.

Stunned.

Sandy hair. Sandy eyes. Sandy skin. A golden child wrapped and packaged in off colored ribbons and bones. She had a quirky smile and a way of looking at him carefully, gold flecked eyes blending into the gold flecked face that excited him so much it irritated him. But scared him more.

She looked at him over the broad walnut brown table in the boardroom, while Tsunade was up talking, droning on, executive.

One day she had simply not the been there. And suddenly she was. New Jounin. Readily accepted. Bam. And she wouldn't stop looking at him. And he couldn't stop looking at her.

She semi-discovered the stripe down his left eye, figured it was hiding beneath the tilt of his hitai-ate and knew immediately that he was the one. She kept staring. It made him drum his fingers. It made Anko and Kurenai stare. And radiate anger like idols abandoned at the foot of their own shrines. Angered ,both, that he had left them behind but more so at the prospect of him beginning to move on to golder ground and hunger after fresh meat. They could both remember the security of his ziplock arms around them. And the rage of the beast lurking in his pants. They immediately became suspicious and scowled.

After the meeting he confronted her outside about the staring with those impossible golden eyes. And she stood leaning against the brick wall building, one round hip cocked out as if she had been waiting for him all along, and had invited him over herself. He said

"What were you staring at?"

"You."

"Why?"

"Well, you've got to be the ugliest person I've ever seen, don't be flattered."

They ended up holding hands outside under the cherry blossom brush. Anko and Kurenai watching plum eyed under, from the envious shadows. He was oblivious. It just so happened that her name was Kingyo.


	4. Seasons

In the Spring he held her hand so tightly, their bones grafted together. And it hurt them both so much to pull apart that they simply stayed stuck together, spinning alone in the grass like children catching the falling stars on their shared palm.

In the Summer she took off her skin for him. And he liked the way her bones looked even better than the rest of her. They were surprisingly white and dull. She was human. And not just a golden egg. He felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

In the Fall other relations fell off like dead leaves from stripped down trees. And he could only think of her. All of the others fell into dark bottomless waste bins in his mind. And their sullen faces eventually became creased with worried sorrow. And he almost got clipped by a poorly aimed kunai in battle. Which he never did. And Tsunade was reprimanding him for not having his head in things. Which she never did. And Anko was cautioning him, which she always did. But this time her eyes were big and wet and desperate. And he didn't listen.

In the Winter he hung up a 'Vacant' sign on his body. And handed her the key. She generously opened it up and crawled inside. And it nearly killed her because she liked it there. Nestled amongst his ribs, right next to his heart beating unbearably fast. But the White Skin was getting anxious.


	5. Of pain and Pleasure

The sex was sorrowful. Full of things neither of them could say. It was extravagantly dark and ravenous. More a throbbing ache that needed to be fed than lovemaking. There was nothing gentle about it. He was an animal. And he was almost always aggressive with her. And she was almost always moved to tears, though if it was more from the pleasure or the pain neither of them could ever be sure.

He would pin her wrists down so painfully and tightly in his own hands that the fingerprint bracelets lasted for days. She would beg for it. Love for the first time the feel of giving up her body. Of submission.

He would swallow her soft golden mouth with his own taut ruddy one. She would bathe him in her eyelashes. He would take her high enough to get her stuck. She would strangle the strands of his talcum-powder-soft silver hair in her hands. He would hang himself from her tongue. She would lick his bones. He would say "I love you." She would say it back. He would mean it. She would mean it more. He would kiss her all over her face before drifting off to sleep. And she would stare at his sleeping face, and sit up half the night watching the moon cut through the darkness outside the window and cry..

She wouldn't allow herself to touch him when she was fully clothed. The thought of what she had to do dismembered her. She felt dirty. She hated herself.


	6. It Is Finished

When the White Skin began to make threats, she knew it was time.

It was a rainy day. When the air smelled of feverish hay and the sun was very damp. They were lying in bed. She was cupped like a spoon in his strong body. And wore his arms around her golden shoulders like a sweater. She squeezed him to her so tightly, that her long golden nails broke the skin on his arms in little red streaks like inside out veins.

She couldn't stop crying. She couldn't tell him why. She wouldn't let him kiss her. She wanted him to hold her and not make love to her just hold her. He rocked her like a baby and stroked her hair. He started to say that he loved her, to whisper it in her ear in his syrupy, sticky-sweet voice, but she stopped him pseudo-lovely.

She asked him to turn around. She said she wanted to massage his back, but really she didn't want to have to see the look on his face. He obliged why wouldn't he? Rolled over onto his stomach and she mounted him, crawling slowly, tracing her hands up and down his lovely broad back where their love marks were still burned into his skin. And leaking her eyes down into his hair. She covered his sinewy hips with her lean golden ones, the way he covered her mouth with his. The crying would never stop.

She pressed a kiss against the back of his neck, and then rested there, weighing her wet salty cheek on his smooth warm skin. He stirred and said "What's wrong baby?" She put a kunai between his shoulder blades and dug it down deep to the hilt, slicing neatly through the meat of his chest cavity. She pressed down until she could feel the soft textures of the pillow on the other side with the tip of the kunai. She stroked his hair until his body stiffened. And then left with the kunai, in a parade of bread crumb sized dollops of blood. Feeling thankful that she had never had to see his eyes. Crying. Feeling empty. And heading back to the room of smoke and mirrors and the White Skin. Halfway there she almost put the kunai to her own throat.


	7. Dead and Gone

They thought he wouldn't fight it, but he did.

Hooked up to all the tubes and wiring. Frosty eyed and bloody lungs, he hovered on the precipice. In Limbo. But the heartbeat was still there.

Tsunade was taking especially good care of him. Tsunade was putting out a search for the golden witch woman.

Kurenai was staring at the paper thin hospital gown and the paper doll man swallowed up in it through the plexiglass window. She couldn't get too close, she believed death was contagious. She had Asuma's arms around her waist.

Anko sat by his bed. She made up stories for him that she sat and told all night directly into his deaf ears. She rubbed her own special salve on his wounds when the nurses weren't looking. She asked them if she could help change his stitches She held his hand and massaged his knuckles. Big and irregular, some of them a jumpy crooked and misplaced and misshapen from so many hard hits. She stroked with her thumb the tough calloused skin on his scarred palms. She kissed the smooth underbelly of the scar on his eye. The eyelid thin and traipsing over it's ruined iris and swimming with little blue veins. She wore suns in her teeth. And moons in her eyes. She trapped seasons in her hands twiddling her thumbs. She waited. She remembered the golden woman and hated her with a seething passion that kept her eyes pinned open bright white like light bulbs all the time. She remembered herself and that he had never found anything unique about her. Not even in the triangular slice of flesh resting beneath her skirt. She watched the thick lifeline shaped scar forming and crusting over on his chest and hoped that when he awoke things would be different. When he awoke she was there.

He sat up in bed and eyed her as if she were a clear crystal necked bottle and looked right through her. She held his hand and patted the worn skin and said softly, eyes wet with gratitudefearreliefpainlove "I told you so." She expected it would make him angry. It didn't make him anything. He simply sat and said nothing. And continued to stare straight through her, expressionless. Emotionless. Lifeless. As if he hadn't heard a word or she hadn't spoken. Which scared her more than any of his angry outbursts ever could have.


	8. Goldfinal

When Orochimaru came again to the village hidden in the leaves on a melodic whim, resounding with destruction, Orochimaru brought with him a troupe of several ninja fine tuned for battle.

He clenched his fists. The scar on his chest burned like an insect's desperation when hopelessly tangled in thick cotton curtains. It always burned. Even after it had completely healed it continued to burn. Even when Anko brushed it lively-loving with her lips or fingertips it burned. Especially at night when he fell into sleep and dreamed of golden eggs it burned. And it always burned and he suspected that it always would. But now particularly, because in the back of the troupe of insignificant faceless sound ninja was a small sandy frame in sandy garb with sandy hands and gold flecked piercing eyes that blended into the golden face.

She stared as if she saw a ghost. Open mouthed with the golden tongue he used to hold on to. He put a lightning blade straight through her chest. And there was no time for reaction. Only time for her tears to come slow and sweet down her cheeks. And even those were golden, too. She closed her eyes when the current began it's firey spiral through her body, and there was a single second in which there was nothing but calm. Soundless, colorless, painless calm. And opening her eyes she saw the look in his and decided not to fight it.

That night it rained full and heavy and when the moisture was almost dried up, and the day was almost out; the sun reflecting off the fading puddles made the streets gleam bright gold. He laid in bed dead awake. His chest burned and he moaned.


	9. Consumed

There was nothing gold about her gravestone. A simple unmarked piece of gravel. Rough and rugged and crudely shaped everything she was not. But it was better that way, because the grave was a long ways away from the village and he wouldn't be making it a regular trip like with the memorial stone. He stood on her chest. Then he moved up some and stood on her face. Then he went back to standing on her chest. He like that, how metaphoric it was. He remembered the blade separating his body from his spirit. Cutting him into a lateral two. Her hands in his hair. The sound of her honey voice begging his love. And the soft ire of her sobbing after she'd thought he was asleep, which he had never understood before, but understood now. He put his hand inside his shirt and the scar buzzed under his fingertips. But didn't burn the burning was long gone. The name on the headstone read simply Kuro. Black. He felt a lump in his throat. He put his calloused hands around it and squeezed until he thought his eyes would pop out. Until he feared it lose it all, all that he had left in a fleeting explosion. Like fire and powder.


End file.
